Brain Weasels Working Overtime

Well, Darling Ones,

Today is a nightmare combination of anxiety and complicated grief offset with a slate-grey sky out my window to just really, *chef’s kiss* this day.

My brain weasels couldn’t decide what should be the priority, my winter-driving anxiety in the face of 3-4 inches of slushy snow falling at the moment, the impending diagnosis of macular degeneration/retinopathy/tumor, or the fact that today is my dad’s birthday.

If you’re new here or have forgotten, I drive a 1999 Chevrolet S10 I bought twenty-one years ago. Her name is Ruby and I love her, but she’s a puny 2-wheel drive truck that cannot handle any kind of snow. Not the smartest vehicle for a Minnesotan.

Rubes is so shitty in the snow that when I lived in a crummy apartment in Prior Lake I used to have to get pushed out of my snowy parking spot on the reg. Lucky for me, one of my Friday night bowlers lived in the same building and he was always willing to give me a shove. I paid him pack in Bud Lights.

Rubes is so shitty in the snow that we had a scary accident back in aught-six. That accident and the 1991 death of Sister #2’s BFF due to back ice, is why I refuse to drive when it snows.

So I had to choose one more day of anxiety about my possible macular degeneration/retinopathy/tumor or the anxiety of driving to the eye doctor in 3-4 inches of slushy snow with the added worry about whether or not I’d be able to get out of my driveway.

I chose one more day of degeneration anxiety, which has effectively cut my anxiety in half, so now my brain has time to focus on what today is really about.

My dad’s birthday.

It’s the first one since he died and I’m not sure how to feel about it.

For most of his life we were not allowed to acknowledge his birthday. There was a temporary lifting of the embargo once the niblings came along, but not for long.

He hated his birthday for reasons he never told us. Whenever we’d ask he’d say, “I just do.” Maybe because he shared a birthday with his own abusive father? Was it from decades upon decades of untreated depression? Who knows?

Even writing about his birthday here feels disloyal. I’m not sure I believe in an afterlife or anything, but I don’t want him to haunt me for writing about his birthday.

Bleh. Life is rough, man.

I’m gonna go shove eleventy-billion episodes of “Bob’s Burgers” into my brain until I feel better.


P.S. While I was getting this post ready I was listening to some live versions of Jason Isbell’s “Anxiety” on YouTube, and then they popped up Frightened Rabbit’s cover of “Whole of the Moon” and that was a delightful gift from the universe (or algorithm if you want to be no fun).

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